Memory Yields
by The Water Daemon
Summary: Chronicling the exploits of Dr. Frank Sloth and the Space Faerie, before their public fame. Aka, chipping away at the writer's block.


Author's note: Boy, I haven't written a fanfic in some time. Probably for the best. This plot has been bothering me for like, two years, so here it goes. Beware, I never edit my fanfics, so there are bound to be a number of errors as well as severe shittiness. Oh, and this one isn't for kids. Usually I can edit my fics so they have some chance of getting in the NT (but never do), but not for this one. This is just a whole bag of awful.

" '_I have done that,' says my memory. 'I cannot have done that,' says my pride, and remains unshakeable. Finally—memory yields."_

Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

Being a scientist, my mind is one of facts, sources, and published papers. Love is often interwoven with intellect—and so she knitted herself into my cerebral fabric.

She was Pavlovian to me: dangle her before my eyes and my mouth would sweat. Fitting, then, how silver bells marked her entrance into my life: the employee alerts of flea markets—or in this case, vintage record stores.

Oh, but how it was hate at first sight. I was presumptuous to the type she was: a faerie flirting with feigned independence who would ultimately paddle desperately back to the mainstream. The impish, excited look she wore said it all: real music aficionados had faces outfitted in jaded disdain.

It also lingered in her wardrobe: it was too new. Those textiles lacked the proper personalization, damage, or thriftstore musk. The way she scanned through the vinyls spoke volumes too. She was indecisive, insincere in selection, and bewildered at bands long lost in music history's underground erosion.

I immediately nudged my coworker (at that time, occasionally more than a comrade) to point out her presence. She gave a lazy look in the newcomer's direction, charcoal gaze unsteady from midday marijuana. Her diluted face suddenly split into a harshly amused grin. Jhudora knew the newbie's type all too well, from years as a pandering gutterpunk. Being a fellow female only assigned her additional hatred. Who was a pretty young thing like this newbie trying to prove next to a seasoned punker like Jhudora?

"She looks like she's going to shit herself," smirked Jhudora, pulling at her neon bangs idly (the only portion of her hair that remained besides purple erect liberty spikes from forehead to spine).

"Nah, she's probably getting all hot and bothered by bands like The Vibrators and Pussy Galore," I replied sarcastically.

Jhudora smiled more subtly, tongue playing with her labret piercing indicated by a bulging of her bottom lip. Her face, after a moment of quiet reflection, turned in sudden disgust. "Fuckin' kids these days … trying to prove something," Jhudora snarled. She gave one final scathing glare to the newcomer before turning back to behind the counter, sorting through the new release box.

But I wasn't so easily distracted from this round peg jamming herself into a square hole. It wasn't just her obvious newbie status that bothered me, oh so ignorant and naïve. You see, she was also painfully beautiful. You think that'd be a good thing—her slender waist, starry hair, and petite physique might appeal to the men, allowing her a backdoor into our little subculture. Unfortunately for her, faeries were distinctly lacking in the Y-chromosome—and I, one of the few exceptions to the double-X rule, despised beauties like her: pure and saintly.

See, I'd never been much of a looker myself, at least by faerie standards. My railish frame, obscure cowlicked bangs, fiendish red eyes boxed by awkward glasses, and subtle suggestions of intellect never sat well with the ladies. They liked their scarce male population big and stupid, two characteristics I sorely lacked.

Subconsciously, this made me jealous of normal-looking faeries, regardless of gender—to say nothing of knockouts like our newbie. This jealousy all too often transformed into premeditated spite—and consequentially I felt the hot taste of hatred tingle my tongue. I could not leave something so offensively gorgeous alone.

But to just walk up to her would be inappropriate. Jhudora, ever the judgmental bitch, might presume this indicated a desire to talk to her in a way other than condescending. I had to have Jhudora suggest I insult her—break her back down to her mainstream mold.

Luckily, the newbie supplied me with just the trigger I needed with monumental timing.

"Hey, Jew"—(a common pet name for Jhudora at that time)—"is that a … _Flux of Pink Indians_ vinyl the newbie's checking out … ?"

Jhudora jerked to attention, elitist rage in her eyes. Pretension narrowed her eyes as they laid upon the newbie, who indeed fondled a copy of "Live Statement," the very same Jhudora had donated herself and declared to be sold to only the most worthy customer.

I had hit a nerve, the newbie the hammer for my deadly strike. Jhudora gritted her teeth, set to kill. But even back then Jhudora wasn't one to get her hands dirty. I knew this all too well from various errands and odd jobs I'd undertaken for her in exchange for a dimebag of smack, dry. She turned to me abruptly, a plan for vinyl rescue already congealed in her mind. I knew that already, but patiently waited for her instruction anyway as ritual demanded.

"Hey, Frank, you wanna earn another dimebag?" she asked hurriedly, eyes flashing over to the newbie.

"Sure, Jew, I thought you'd never ask," I grinned.

"That newbie over there. You know the one."

"Oh? What about her?" I asked teasingly. The newbie was getting closer, the album held close to her chest with no intention of abandon. As she got closer, Jhudora became more anxious, bent on distancing the newbie from that album. She hissed like a furious freight train, purple eyes alighted.

"You know WHAT about her! Part her from that album, NOW, or I'll never fill you up ever again!"

"Hey, hey, I thought you were promising to fill me up SOME MORE."

"Yeah, well, I changed my conditions. Now git!" Jhudora practically flung me from behind the counter to approach the newbie. She had gone from stoned to sober in sixty seconds or less—all too typical for a moody and tolerant faerie like Jhudora. I tried to conceal a grin, glancing back to Jhudora with a 'watch this' face before strolling over to the newbie, nonchalant and pompous.

She was fervently studying album titles as I approached, oblivious to me entirely. There was a hopeless look in her eyes—what if she picked a random title that wasn't dubbed worthy? I was nearly on top of her by the time I made my presence known; I was almost regretful at interrupting her aimless search. She looked so sincerely studious—as if all these new band names were an intellectual stretch.

"Hey there, little lady."

She jumped as if attacked at the sound of my voice, twirling around. I was practically up her ass, however, so she fell back into me, nearly knocking me over in the process. There was a frantic flurry as we both desperately regained our equilibrium and pride. Thankfully, I was used to these sorts of blunders, and recomposed in seconds; she took an additional minute, muttering apologies and shoving her hair self-consciously behind her ear.

"Sorry, sorry … you snuck up on me there," she said, forcing a smile. I gave her a quick look up and down, raising an eyebrow. She was no impressionist painting; she was just as uncommonly attractive from a closer vicinity. Dark blue strands scattered in front of her tanned face. Upon closer inspection, I discovered, much to my surprise, her eyes were a deep crimson, mirroring mine.

I mentally shook myself out of my momentary mesmerisation by this uncommon similarity and leaned forward, plucking the vinyl out of her hands with no regard to manners. "Let's see what you have here, huh?" I asked, holding out the album as if it were a piece of art under critique. She looked at me with wide-eyes, seemingly shocked at my rudeness. After a moment, she seemed to accept it as normal behavior, closing in to look at the cover with me.

I pretended to give the cover a long look of consideration. After a moment of feigned judgment, I aimed an incredulous look down my nose at the newbie and then turned my attention to the counter, holding up the album for Jhudora to see. "Hey look, Jew, we've got a regular anarchist on our hands!" Jhudora, who had been watching my show adamantly, stifled a snicker under a clawed hand.

Our little newbie's faced paled suddenly, swallowing hard. She wasn't completely dense—she knew as soon as the comment left my mouth that I was mocking her rather mercilessly. The classic symptoms of saving-face-with-nervous-humiliation flittered over her person. Her throat began to clear itself against her will, her fingers started to play with one another and her eyesight couldn't seem to find mine.

"No, well … see, I didn't really—"

"No, you didn't, did you?" I consoled condescendingly, patting her over the head like a child. The color returned to her face in the form of a heated blush. I shook my head pityingly, clucking my tongue. "Look, newbie, no need to be ashamed there. You can enjoy the Indians without flipping off Fyora. But see here, this is my favorite album of theirs—shit, man, I like these guys better'n Crass." No fleeting recognition flickered across her face. I could feel the bile churn in my stomach. She opened her mouth in an attempt to redeem herself.

"See, I, uh, haven't really heard _much_ by these guys … one of my friends recommended them to me …."

Straight from the newbie playbook. "So what exactly do you listen to, little lady?" I asked, tapping the side of the vinyl casually against my opposite hand. If she, by some act of God, managed to list a band that was halfway decent, perhaps I would relinquish the record.

"Well, I've been really into The Clash lately …."

She had dug her own grave. This blasphemous comment sucked the humored laughter from Jhudora's mouth: nobody mentioned a sellout like The Clash in front of Jhudora and stayed in her store. Jhudora gave me an urgent look from behind the counter—'kill her.'

I decided to heed Jhudora's demands and stop toying with the newbie. I suddenly became much more direct, interrupting her in her list of her current favorites. "Look, kid, let me make a deal with you. If you can name one song—just ONE little song—from this album, I'll let you walk away with it free. Is that a deal?"

She paused, giving me a wary look. "What's the catch?"

"If you can't, I put back this record where it belongs, and you skedaddle from this establishment and stick to Sam Goody," I replied harshly, my tone no longer quite so synthetically cheerful.

She swallowed, her eyes wide. "Don't you … don't you need SOMEBODY to buy albums?" she asked, stalling.

"Why, yes, little lady. But we have plenty of customers who DON'T listen to The Clash," I replied blandly. "Now, give me a song title. Any song title. As far as you know, the Indians could've covered something by the Clash." Highly unlikely, but this seemed to give her a little bit of confidence. She straightened her back, closed her eyes, and gave her voice to divine inspiration.

"Anarchy in the UK."

"Ooooh, The Fun is Over, little lady!" I crooned with mock consolation, shaking my head. I elbowed past her and slipped the Indians album back where it belonged. "You know, it's best to at least look at the back of an album to see if they have any tracks you think you'd like." I turned around, looking behind my shoulder to give a snide smirk at her. "And Anarchy in the UK? That's the Sex Pistols, not The Clash. Not that either are vaguely redeemable."

I began to stride back to the counter where Jhudora sat, giving me quiet applause from behind the counter. I kept my back to the newbie, practically forgetting her presence and instead anticipating my imminent dimebag reward.

But the newbie, surprisingly, would not let me off the hook so easily. "Frank Sloth?"

I stopped in my tracks upon hearing my name. It sounded shockingly nonoffensive coming from her voice: usually, my hard, un-faerielike name came out sounding like pieces of vomited glass. I slowly turned around, lifting an eyebrow towards the newbie. She stood where I had left her, holding up a strip of paper defiantly. The defeated and shameful look on her face from seconds before had been wiped away, and was replaced with one of rebelling determination.

"Yeah, what's up?" I asked slowly, my tone now cautious. "And how do you know my name?" One of the many reasons I had picked working at the beaten-up record shop, among the ability to insult ignorant customers, was the fact I did not have to wear an ID badge.

"I figured you'd be the only male who works at this place," she said, walking up to me. A sudden motivation was in her eyes—I could sense the tables slowly shifting to her favor. "I was just looking for a male, 'cause this is definitely a male name I've been assigned to room with." Her voice was haughty, just as insulting as mine had been earlier. I looked her up and down once more, making sure to keep my eyes critical.

"Wait, what are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying that I applied to the Faerie Counsel to occupy the half of the apartment you can't pay for. I just received my approval today, and they told me to show you this and tell you I'm moving in." She shoved the slip of paper into my hand, half-crumpled. I immediately uncrumpled it, holding it taunt to read the calligraphy writing signature of the Faerie Counsel's documents. Upon the piece of parchment, official-looking despite its creased nature, was a simple statement I had dreaded ever reading:

_The Faerie Counsel has approved the housing of Ms. 'Space Faerie' in the Enchanted Mushroom Apartment Complex. Ms. Space Faerie is slated to live at Tower #3, Apartment 78, with Mr. Frank Sloth._

"It's doctor! Doctor!" I cried. My chagrin at being paired by the Faerie Counsel with this ignorant newbie was eclipsed by the fact that the Faerie Counsel had addressed me by the wrong prefix. "For Christ's sake, I work extra years for a Ph. D, can't even get a decent job because stupid MAGIC is all that's respected by fucking faeries and people STILL can't respect my fucking title …"

"Moot point, Sloth," the newbie, the Space Faerie, said dryly. Now SHE was the one dishing out a fair share of point blank sarcasm, snatching the slip of paper away from me. "I've been governmentally assigned to room with you—there must've been a glitch in the system when they paired a female with a male, but I think we can work it out, can't we?" she asked sarcastically, rolling her eyes. She shoved the slip of paper into her pocket and turned to leave. "The Counsel already gave me the keys, so expect to see my pretty face when you walk in after work, Mr. Music Nazi," she said harshly, reaching for the handle of the door.

"That's DOCTOR Music Nazi, you cunt!" I shouted after her, giving her a middle-fingered farewell salute. I was answered by that irritating sound of bells clashing against safety glass, the door slamming behind her retreating form.

As the sound of the bells faded, Jhudora's amused laughter could be heard from behind the counter. I whipped my head around to glare at her, my eyes practically glowing with spite. "Fucking government-issued housing! You see, this is why I hate commies like you!" I screamed at Jhudora, a red-loving blue collar since the day she was born. Jhudora, though, had been attacked by a fit of the giggles—her stoned state seemed to dawn back on her now that the newbie was out of the picture, amusement tickling every inch of her body.

"Oh, fuck you, Dr. Music Nazi," Jhudora said, mocking the Space Faerie, sticking out her tongue. She nearly bit it off as she continued laughing, her body under a siege of the giggles. I was not so humored by the situation. Leaping behind the counter in an unusual display of physical activity, I immediately slumped down into the chair behind the counter. My elbows stationed themselves on the counter as my hands groped my face in grief, shaking my head.

"I can't fucking believe this, Jew … I'm going to be LIVING with that little bitch. Don't they have to do personality tests before they pair two people together? God, I fucking purposefully answered everything eccentrically so no one would match up with me … and I'd be going strong for so long …" I groaned, finding solace in my finger.

"Don't worry, Slothie-poo," Jhudora grinned, looking up to me with her lazy, bloodshot eyes. "At least she doesn't look like a thief, or a whore. And besides, now you won't get loooone-leeeey without meeee," she said, drawing out her syllables and fluttering her eyelashes innocently. I rolled my eyes in her direction, putting one of my hands over her face.

"Trust me, I'm perfectly fine without you."

"Says you," she sniffed, feigning insult. "Now what would you say to closing up this place early and smoking a few? I owe you a dimebag anyway—and nothing like pot for a prelude."

"Yeah, sure," I muttered, pulling my hand over my face. "I'm gonna need something to forget this shit anyway."


End file.
